


More

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had never liked Derek. Derek was good-looking, sure; but he was also surly and violent and deceitful and mistrusting and somewhat frightening and a terrible alpha and pretty much impossible to be around. At various points throughout Derek’s snail-paced recovery, Stiles almost considered leaving. But then Derek would do something like make a distressed little noise in his sleep or murmur “Stiles?” again, struggling to blink open his bloodshot eyes, and Stiles would just. Stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More

**Author's Note:**

> The ending isn't necessarily _unhappy_ , I mean, no one dies, but it's not a happy ending either. (You might want to read something else! [Something involving kittens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/734316), maybe. Or just [some plain old crack!fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/700935).) (Or you could read this anyway and opt for the alternative, more hopeful, whipped-up-in-five-minutes ending in the first comment thread. It's up to you!)

“I can’t do this anymore,” Stiles says, and from the way Derek doesn’t respond – doesn’t squint or swallow or look away – he can tell that Derek knows this. Has been waiting for this. Has been expecting this. His face stays neutral, showing not a single trace of anger or hurt or sadness. After a few seconds he nods. His shoulders sag a little bit. Whether out of relief or out of disappointment, Stiles will probably never know.

 

* * *

 

It happened – _they_ happened – sometime after the alpha attacks. Once Derek had rejected their proposal (“Why would an alpha pack want to bring _Derek Hale_ of all people into their fold?” Stiles had asked Scott incredulously when they found out about Deucalion & co.’s intentions in Beacon Hills. “No offense, but has the guy ever even succeeded at anything? _Ever?_ ”), the pack had turned vicious, ruthless. More people died than during Peter’s revenge and Matt’s vendetta combined. Jackson and Lydia fled. Peter fled. Erica died. Isaac almost died.

Derek almost died, too. They found his body near the Hale house ruins, in a puddle of his own blood. None of them thought he would make it. Most of his wounds listlessly inched shut overnight but Derek was burning up for days, delirious, convinced that Allison was Erica. He kept trying to talk to her, half-intelligible whispers like “I wish—” and “I thought—” and “Erica…” and “I’m—” that never really went anywhere before the fever pulled him under again, shivering and sweating, teeth clattering.

Inexplicably enough, Derek wouldn’t stop mumbling “Stiles?” whenever he broke into consciousness for a second or two. (One time he whispered, “Laura?”) It took him four days to regain some lucidity, an entire week to shake the fever. Even then he wasn’t able to do much except swallow down a few mouthfuls of water and fall back asleep, pale and exhausted, face burrowed deeply into his pillow as though something was still hurting him.

 

* * *

 

Stiles had never liked Derek. Derek was good-looking, sure; but more than that he was surly and violent and deceitful and mistrusting and somewhat frightening and a terrible alpha and pretty much impossible to be around. At various points throughout Derek’s snail-paced recovery, Stiles half-considered leaving Derek to his own devices, regardless of how severely impaired those currently were. Yeah. Let the bastard grab his damn water bottle himself, or shrivel up and die of dehydration if he couldn’t.

But Stiles couldn’t do that— he wasn’t like that. And every time he’d almost managed to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, he _was_ that kind of person, Derek would do something like make a distressed little noise in his sleep or murmur “Stiles?” again, struggling to blink open his bloodshot eyes, and Stiles would just. Stay.

(He thought of his mom a lot during the time he spent watching the slow rise and fall of Derek’s chest beneath the sheets.)

Stiles knew Derek was starting to get better the moment he pushed himself up on his elbows— his first calculated movement in about two weeks. He looked like shit; his skin was blotchy and his hair a mess, stubble thicker than Stiles had ever seen it.

Derek blinked at him sluggishly. “Why’d you stay?” he asked in a low, hoarse voice.

Half a month of his summer break wasted sitting on Derek fucking Hale’s threadbare couch, and he doesn’t even get a ‘thanks for saving my life’. Asshole. Stiles bristled. “’Cause you kept saying my name every time you woke up,” he said sharply, just to see what’d happen.

Derek said, “Oh,” and looked away, throat working.

Stiles wasn’t expecting that. He also wasn’t expecting to be suddenly distracted by the length of Derek’s eyelashes, or the sudden spasm of _something_ in his lower stomach at the faint blush spreading under that two-week beard.

Stiles looked away, too.

 

* * *

 

Their first kiss was mostly an accident. Derek had skipped town unannounced; just like that he was gone, without leaving a note, without as much as a text. He returned after six days. Stiles was _furious_. They were in the middle of finals and he was stressed out and Scott, Allison, Isaac, and Boyd had been too busy studying to spare a thought for their missing alpha (no one really seemed to think Derek was in trouble; Stiles couldn’t explain, not even to himself, why he cared) and so when Derek opened his front door in nothing but jeans and an unzipped leather jacket and huffed “What?”, Stiles punched him in the mouth hard enough to sprain his thumb and then grabbed him by the neck and kissed him.

He was acting on impulse, his mind foggy with rage and frustration and sleep deprivation. It was only after a few seconds that he realized what was happening; that Derek hadn’t hit him back or pushed him away; that they were still kissing, holding onto each other’s face as though the world would end if they let go. (That he realized, _so this is why I care_.) Derek was breathing harshly, his eyes squeezed shut. Stiles felt sick, but not in a bad way. His heart was pulsing in his throat. He moved to pull away but Derek exhaled, “Stiles,” against his lips, voice strained, eyes still closed. Stiles stayed where he was. He touched the warm expanse of Derek’s stomach, all tanned skin and rigid muscle, and felt it shudder under his hands. He slid his hands down Derek’s spine and felt Derek’s mouth stutter against his.

The reason he’d come was to ask Derek where the hell he’d run off to. What the hell he’d been thinking, leaving like that— just when they were finally starting to make progress, talking things over, all working together like they should’ve done from the start. (Apparently losing half your pack was good for group morale. Who knew?) He decided the answer didn’t really matter, not right now. (Later, Derek told him he’d been looking for Peter. Stiles had been right; it didn’t matter.) Instead, he said, “You’re an asshole for disappearing like that,” his voice faltering on the _that_ when Derek ducked his head and sucked a mark into the skin of Stiles’ throat.

They were interrupted by Stiles’ phone buzzing. It was his dad, asking him if he needed anything from the store, telling him he’d better be home studying for his finals or else. After hanging up Stiles said, “Uh, that was my dad,” and Derek said, “Yeah, I know,” scratching the back of his neck, avoiding Stiles’ eyes. The moment was shattered, and Stiles drove off wondering _what the fuck just happened?_ He didn’t sleep much that night; every time his mind wandered back to the kiss he felt sick-but-not-in-a-bad-way again. Eventually he jerked off to the thought of it quickly and quietly. It wasn’t like he’d never jerked off to the thought of Derek before— it was just that now it seemed so much realer, so much closer, that it almost felt wrong to be doing it.

 

The next day he arrived half an hour early to pack meeting, with sweaty palms and the serious intention to talk about what had happened. After he let himself in, though, Derek had him pressed up against the door before Stiles could say anything.

“Tell me honestly,” Derek mumbled into the crook of Stiles’ neck. “Do you want this?”

Stiles shivered, closed his eyes, swallowed, and exhaled almost involuntarily, “Yes.”

Derek kissed him. Not gently— hard, desperate, like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d been holding back for months and couldn’t bear it any longer. Stiles hooked his fingers into Derek’s shirt and contemplated that possibility, the possibility of Derek longing for him, lusting for him, wanting him, waiting for him, holding back for him. Weak-kneed, he slid an arm around Derek’s neck to pull him closer and tried to stop thinking.

 

* * *

 

They never did talk about it, neither face-to-face nor even via text. (Stiles considered it, texting Derek, wondered repeatedly if he should send something, maybe _hey so what exactly are we doing here_ or _should we talk about this_ or even just _can i come see you tomorrow_. But whenever he did, his mouth tasted of ashes at the thought alone.) They just made sure to appear in quiet places – usually Derek’s loft – around the same time, when everyone else had either already left or not yet arrived.

 

At first it was just kissing— the same way as before, hard and desperate, frantic. Like they’d both been starving. Then, one time, in Derek’s kitchen, Derek wrapped himself around Stiles from behind, kissing the side of his neck, warm fingers wandering under his shirt with careful, intent touches. Stiles could hear the matching sounds of their breathing, loud and slightly shallow. Almost thoughtlessly he reached up and linked his fingers with Derek’s, nudging his hand downward. Derek made a noise. Stiles took in a sharp breath when he pressed Derek’s palm down over the bulge of his dick in his jeans, almost moaned when Derek rustled closer and he could feel the outline of Derek’s erection against the small of his back.

“C’mon,” Stiles mumbled, “Derek,” and Derek made another noise and that’s how Derek jerked Stiles off for the first time ever. (How, for the first time ever, someone else than Stiles jerked Stiles off.) Stiles could see himself reflected in the kitchen window, red-cheeked and open-mouthed and his head tipped a little to the side. Derek’s chin was hooked over his shoulder; in the window reflection it looked like he had his eyes closed.

Afterward Stiles pushed Derek back against the fridge to stroke him off in return, forehead braced against Derek’s collarbone so he could watch his hand work over Derek’s dick. (He remembers idly thinking that it was a sight he’d probably never tire of.) His orgasm had left him comfortably drowsy, though, and his eyes kept drooping shut, hand slipping. Derek’s chuckle vibrated lowly in the air between them. “Shuddup,” Stiles murmured, squeezing, and Derek moaned at that, fingers flexing where they were lodged on both sides of the base of Stiles’ spine.

 

* * *

 

It stayed at that, at quiet sometimes-hurried-sometimes-unhurried handjobs, for a very long time. Not that Stiles really minded, at first. It was intoxicating, the weight and feel of someone else’s dick – the weight and feel of _Derek’s_ dick – in his hand. It was so hot that he still jerked off to the thought of it every evening, even on days when Derek had brought him off twice. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Derek felt and smelled and the way he, Stiles, had become able to tell how close to orgasm Derek was just by the pitch of his breathing.

But, as it turned out, it wasn’t enough. Spurting come all over Derek’s hand, rubbing off against his rock-hard thigh, stilling in his lap— it was mind-blowing every time, but after a few months of it Stiles already felt like he was going to thrum out of his skin again before he’d even caught his breath.

“Hey, so we should have sex,” he blurted out one night. His dad was working late; Derek had showed up on the front porch with a library book under his arm, murmuring something about research, brushing his hand through his stubble and then scratching the back of his neck. He looked really good. Stiles had opened the door wider to let Derek in and accidentally slammed it shut, making Derek wince, making Stiles wince in response. He’d mumbled, “Sorry,” and pulled Derek in for a kiss, which felt surreally natural at this point. Derek had dropped the stupid book, wound his arms around Stiles’ waist and hoisted him up in the air a few centimeters, and it was at that point that Stiles blurted it out.

Derek put him back on his feet. “Should we?” he said. It was dark in the hallway; Stiles couldn’t see his face. He felt around for the light switch. “Yeah,” he said, flicking it on. “Shouldn’t we?”

Derek half-shrugged, nodded, picked up the book. “If that’s what you want.”

“Not if it’s not what _you_ want,” Stiles said. “Obviously.” His heart was beating so fast his throat hurt.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Stiles. Of course I do.” He held out his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go upstairs.”

Stiles took the proffered hand, mouth suddenly dry.

 

It wasn’t a success. They spent some time making out on his bed, but Stiles was too riled-up at the thought of what was about to happen to stay still for longer than two seconds. After a while he just cut to the chase by reaching into his nightstand drawer and pushing the lube and a condom into Derek’s palm. He watched Derek’s jaw clench and unclench and said, “Unless—”, closing his hand over the condom again, heart rate sickening, but Derek jerked away and said, “No,” and “Don’t be ridiculous,” and “It’s just— it’s been a while, okay,” which, oddly enough, made Stiles feel a little calmer. But after that they didn’t speak much, and he was so nervous he had to look away when Derek rolled the condom onto himself.

When Derek worked a second finger into him it hurt more than it ever did when Stiles fingered himself. The position was awkward, too, with one of his legs hooked over Derek’s shoulder so high that it would surely catch a cramp sooner rather than later. Stiles said, “Um, maybe—” at the same time as Derek said, “On your front might—” and they untangled and Stiles got on his hands and knees and he felt awkward and exposed, even though they didn’t have any lights on. He closed his eyes, focused on the warmth of Derek’s hand petting the back of his neck. The third finger hurt even more and his chest closed up at the blunt pressure of the head of Derek’s dick. Stiles closed his eyes and sharply said, “ _Wait_ ,” and Derek said, “I wasn’t—” and Stiles said, “I know, just give me a second,” and Derek kissed him between his shoulder blades, gently, and Stiles bit his lip and wondered how many people Derek had kissed between their shoulder blades before. How many people he’d had sex with. Stiles didn’t even know that.

“Stiles,” Derek said.

Stiles took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, move, you can try—”

“Stiles,” Derek repeated, staying still. “You— you’re bleeding, I can smell it.”

For one second Stiles thought he was going to die of sheer fear and humiliation and disbelief and _did he mention humiliation_ , but then he realized he was still biting down on his bottom lip, had broken the skin, was tasting copper. “I bit my lip,” he said, running his tongue along the wound. It stung. “It’s fine. Hey, you should move, just try it, okay?”

Derek didn’t. “Maybe we should try this some other time,” he said softly, and moved away, off the bed. Stiles’ heart sank. The door creaked. Stiles let himself collapse onto his front, face buried in his pillow. Derek came back into the room, touched his shoulder. “Stiles.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said. And then, because this situation couldn’t get much worse anyway, “Derek, we need to talk more. It’s not gonna work this way. I know you don’t like to talk about this kind of stuff, but…”

Derek stayed quiet. “I know,” he said after a while.

Stiles rolled onto his back. “I don’t even know how many people you’ve had sex with,” he said. Another thought occurred to him. “I don’t even know if you’re having sex with other people right now.”

Derek’s hands flexed at his sides. “Of course I’m not.”

“I don’t even know what all of this _means_ to you,” Stiles said. “Or to me, really,” he added. The second part was a lie; he knew that without having to hear it in his own heartbeat. He knew Derek knew, too. Derek didn’t even seem surprised. He just looked helpless. His eyes flickered up to meet Stiles’ but he didn’t say anything.

Stiles groaned and reached down for his bed sheets. Derek crouched down, tugged them from under Stiles’ legs, draped them loosely around his shoulders. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and hesitantly put a hand on the back of Stiles’ head, brushing his fingertips along the shorter hair there. Stiles reached for his other hand and held it between both of his. He realized that _this is more intimate than anything we’ve ever done before_. “We need to talk more,” he repeated.

Derek said, “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

A few weekends later Stiles brought a bottle of Jack to fight practice, did a handful of shots with Boyd and Allison, then claimed to be too drunk to drive. The others trickled off home while Derek pretended to look for his car keys. Stiles lounged on the couch and entertained himself by envisioning his alcohol-heavy blood sludging through his veins as he waited for Derek to return.

“That was smooth,” Derek’s voice drifted down from the top of the stairs. Stiles grinned up at him. Derek was wearing loose jeans and a ripped gray tank top. There was dust in his hair. He lazily made his way down the spiral staircase and through the living room, all tanned skin and shifting muscle. Once he was near enough, Stiles hooked his fingers through the belt loops on Derek’s jeans and pulled him close. “Hi,” he said, nose somewhere around Derek’s belly button. Stiles could smell him; sweat and deodorant and that one designer fragrance that smelled all right on other people but maddeningly good on Derek. Derek didn’t say ‘hi’ back. He did tenderly touch the hair behind Stiles’ ear, though, which was kind of the same thing.

“I wanna blow you,” Stiles decided, cupping the front of Derek’s jeans to feel the twitch of his dick. He hid his smirk against Derek’s stomach. “Can I?”

“If you want,” Derek said.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Have you seen yourself?” He pulled Derek even closer and then down on the couch, climbing on top of him. Derek’s cheeks were flushed. It was a good look on him. “That’s a good look on you,” Stiles told him.

“What is?”

Stiles touched one of Derek’s cheekbones. “Me,” he said, which probably didn’t make much sense, but it did make Derek lean up for a kiss, so.

Giving head turned out to be fun, mainly because it made Derek twitch and gasp and move in all these little ways he never really did during handjobs. Also because of the look on Derek’s face when, at Stiles’ insistence, he stroked off onto Stiles’ face with his other hand wound into Stiles’ hair— Stiles was probably never going to forget that expression, blissful and a little awed.

After he came, Derek carried Stiles up to the bedroom to return the favor, and Stiles lay sprawled back across the mattress feeling like a king (a _loud_ king). By the time he was close to orgasm his voice was hoarse and even though Derek had three fingers worked into him it wasn’t enough, he wanted more, needed more.

“Derek,” he gasped out, blindly reaching for the side of Derek’s head. “Stop, I want you to fuck me.”

He watched his dick slip from Derek’s mouth, oh Jesus. Derek said, “What?”

“Fuck me,” Stiles repeated. He rocked down on Derek’s fingers, moaned at the feeling. “Please.”

“Are you—”

“ _Put your dick in me_ ,” Stiles said, not caring how ridiculous it sounded— he figured he’d feel embarrassed about it in the morning. (He did.) (He still cringes when he thinks about it.) Derek actually snorted. He pulled his hand free and leaned over Stiles, sneaking in a kiss. His tongue tasted of skin and salt. “All right, all right.”

They fucked with Stiles on his front, but it didn’t feel awkward or exposed like the first time they’d tried. Their fingers were entwined, both hands, and Derek was gasping out indecipherable little words against Stiles’ spine.

Stiles fell asleep straight afterward, woke up to Derek shaking him lightly. “What,” he mumbled into the pillow, clutching it closer. It smelled of Derek. Everywhere smelled of Derek. Derek and sex. Sex and Derek.

“You should get home,” Derek said. “It’s almost ten. C’mon, I’ll drive your jeep.”

Stiles contemplated this for a second and then said, “Nah.”

“What?”

“Bed’s comfy. Come.” Stiles patted the mattress with his free hand. “Come sleep with me.”

“Your dad will be home soon,” Derek said.

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“He will.”

“Whatever,” Stiles said. “I’ll tell him I was here. He won’t mind. He’s probably got it all figured out by now, I mean. He is a cop, after all. And I’m legal these days, so.” He waved his hand around, patted the mattress again. “C’mon, Derek, _sleep_.”

“Stiles,” Derek said in a strangled voice. “Please.”

Stiles sighed and stretched out. His ass and back ached in a wonderful way. “All right, _fine_. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, as our Anglo-Saxon brothers would say.” He pushed himself up onto one forearm and blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Dude, you’re already dressed?”

Derek clenched his jaw, rattled Stiles’ keys in his hands. “Come _on_ , Stiles.”

They didn’t speak in the car at all and the goodbye kiss in front of Stiles’ house was very brief. Stiles didn’t sleep much that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Derek had looked after he’d woken Stiles up— worried, uncomfortable, on edge. _We need to talk about this_ , Stiles thought for the so-manieth time, a panicked feeling curling in his stomach. _We really need to talk about this._

* * *

 

It took Stiles two weeks (three times all-the-way sex; four more blowjobs; several handjobs) to muster enough courage to broach the subject again. They were in Derek’s kitchen; school was kicking his ass, so they hadn’t seen each other in three days. When he came in Derek had pushed him up against the wall next to the front door and embraced him and kissed him hard as though he’d been gone for months. Stiles leaned forward into that stupidly broad chest and thought, _Now or never_. He detached their mouths. “Derek,” he said, heart in his throat. “Can I just— what are we doing here?”

Derek pulled up one eyebrow. “Making out?”

“No way,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. He took a step back. Derek’s arms fell to his sides, limply. “I mean, what are we _doing_ here?” He gestured around.

Derek looked at the floor, half-shrugged. “I live here.”

And just like that, Stiles’ vision flashed white-hot with rage. “Jesus Christ, Derek!” he exploded. “I know you’re not this dumb, so please stop acting like you are and just _answer my fucking question!_ ”

Derek’s shoulders locked up. “I don’t know, okay?” he said, voice tight.

“You don’t— you don’t _know?_ ” Stiles laughed joylessly. “We’ve been dicking around for months, _months_ , and you just don’t _know?_ ”

“Do you?”

“I do,” Stiles said. “I _do_ , you know I do. You know what you— you know what this means to me, Derek, you know what you mean to me, I’ve been trying to make that clear to you from…” His voice faltered, cracked a little when he continued, “from basically the beginning onward, hell, maybe even before that! Don’t you even try and pretend that I haven’t. Don’t even try to go there.”

“I’m not,” Derek said softly. “I won’t.” He said, “I’m sorry.”

Blood drops were trickling from in-between the fingers of his right hand. Stiles reached out and uncurled Derek’s fist, rubbing his thumb along cuts that had already closed up, mindlessly smearing the blood back and forth. “I can’t do it like this,” he decided there and then. “Not anymore, this isn’t cutting it anymore. Derek. I want to— I’m gonna tell my dad about this, about us. Tonight.” Derek’s fingers twitched under his touch. Stiles added, “Feel free to be there. He should be home around six.” He let go of Derek’s hand, wiped the blood on his jeans. “I better go.”

Derek nodded but didn’t say anything.

 

When Stiles checked his phone after he got home, there was a message from Derek. It said, _don’t_. It was the first time Derek had ever texted him about something that wasn’t strictly speaking pack business.

Stiles closed his eyes, breathed through the nausea, sat down on the edge of his bed, sent back, _don’t what?_ even though he knew the answer.

 _don’t tell him_.

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t tell his dad.

 

The next time he sees Derek they’re already reaching down each other’s boxers when Stiles realizes, with sudden and breathtakingly painful clarity, that the ashy taste in his mouth isn’t going to fade. He stills. Derek is already moving away from him before Stiles can even formulate his thoughts. “I can’t,” he says eventually, buttoning up his pants. Derek is doing the same thing, several feet away, with awkward, stilted movements. His facial expression is carefully neutral.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Stiles hears himself say, and what he means is _I don’t want to do this anymore. Not like this._ He doesn’t have to say that, though. Derek knows. Probably, on some level, he always has.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/).


End file.
